“No! For God’s sake, how could it be empty?” he protested. “He died and was buried here.”
“Were you at his funeral?”
“Of course I was. I arranged everything after he died. I saw to all the formalities,” said Ramiro.
“Why such a small funeral? Why were you the only mourner in attendance?”
“Because Alvar was a bad person! He set all the families in Ugarte against one another. They didn’t want to meet each other at the graveside.”
“Was he mean to you?” I probed.
“During the last year of his life, after our parents died, yes. He was a total idiot.”
“But he wasn’t always like that, was he?”
“Until I was about thirteen and Alvar was twenty-five, he was my best friend, even though he was a lot older. He was my role model, my mentor. Then he joined the priesthood, and after that he changed.”
“What do you think changed him? Your father? Something he saw?”
“No, Unai. It wasn’t my father.”
“What, then?”
“What if I don’t want to remember?” he shouted. This was the first time I’d heard him raise his voice, and my guard went up.
“If you want to get yourself out of this mess, you don’t have any other choice.”
“You can’t force me.”
“Listen to me, Ramiro Alvar, because my patience is wearing thin,” I said, crouching so I could look him in the eye. “People are dying because of a book you wrote to cure yourself from a condition that you might not even have. You’ve made decisions that have had horrifying consequences—the worst possible outcomes. My partner, my best friend, nearly died because of you, and she still believes you’re innocent. I need you to try here. I need you to confront your past once and for all. What happened to Alvar? What was so serious that it made you create an alter you wanted to kill off?”
Ramiro Alvar’s chin quivered. He extended a finger to wipe away the grime on the engraving of his brother’s grave.
“It began the way all stories do when you’re young, I suppose. It began with love.”
40
THE RAMPARTS
DIAGO VELA
Summer, the Year of Our Lord 1199
They brought more than just battering rams. Hundreds of arrows spiked the roofs of the houses inside the walls. It was terrifying. The sky bristled with sharp points. They dropped onto the cobbles and the graves in the cemetery. At least there, they could no longer take a life.
“Pick them up, we’re going to need them!” I called out to a group of children shielding themselves under some wooden planks.
A few of the girls who weren’t paralyzed by fear darted out into Rúa de las Pescaderías and grabbed the stray arrows.
Lyra and her apprentices appeared, carrying cauldrons of hot sand.
“Give them cover!” Chipia ordered his soldiers.
I grabbed a shield and joined them, protecting my sister as she and her men scrambled up the stairs to the North Tower.
At the top, I peered over the battlement. Although most of the soldiers were attacking our gate, there weren’t many of them. The king and his standard-bearer, López de Haro, must have realized that any men deployed at the other gates would fall victim to Chipia’s archers and crossbowmen who could take aim from the safety of their arrow slits.
Below us, eight soldiers wielded the battering ram, a huge tree trunk with a sharpened point at one end. They were ill prepared aside from their metal helmets and breastplates. There was no leather canopy to protect them from above.
Lyra positioned her apprentices above the soldiers’ heads and gave the command: “Now!”
The burning-hot sand poured onto the battering ram and the men carrying it. Several of them collapsed, clawing hopelessly at their breastplates as the sand seeped into the gaps in their armor.
The tree trunk lay abandoned, and we were given a few moments’ respite.
It did not last, however: Soon the bulk of the rearguard infantry rushed toward the wall. They came in pairs, carrying ladders with a single pole and traverse bars. This time they spread out on both sides of the North Gate.
“Ladders!” I cried from the square. “To the ramparts, everyone, with your stones!”
Anglesa the baker bounded up the steps two at a time, clutching several large stones to her breast. Alix’s apprentices were close on her heels as they moved to defend the east side. They threw stones of all shapes and sizes, and our archers gave swift cover, launching arrows at the soldiers attempting to climb the ramparts.
Few made it as far as the merlons. Nagorno ran his sword through the belly of a skinny soldier who managed to scale the west wall, and Gunnarr threw his battle-axes left and right. He was lethal and effective, but his size and his flaxen beard made him an easy target for the enemy archers, and one of their arrows pierced his shoulder.
Alarmed, I ran over to him as he took shelter behind a turret.
“We can tend to our wounds later,” he grinned.
“Have you taken henbane?” I asked, surprised to see him so cheerful.
“No need, we’re in no real danger yet.”
Gunnarr had fought with a band of Norse mercenaries who had some bad habits. They were trained to use what they called Odin’s spume; it was actually an ergot, and it produced a state of euphoria that rendered the mercenaries deadly in battle. I hated to see Gunnarr fight under its influence, for it made him as reckless as it did courageous, and I feared for his life.
Just then we heard several voices cry out, “Retreat! Retreat!”
I glanced around. Everyone appeared paralyzed. Chipia had been about to throw an enormous rock and was now clutching it in both arms. Alix’s apprentices exchanged glances, unsure whether to empty their cauldron of burning sand.
I peered over the ramparts. This wasn’t a ruse; the few soldiers still able to run were taking shelter in a nearby stand of trees or fleeing farther afield.
A trumpet sounded. The order came from the king himself.
Retreat.
Gunnarr and I heaved a sigh and leaned our heads against the battlement.
The silence was followed by joyful cheers. Some of the townsfolk lost their heads and continued hurling stones.
“Don’t be foolish, we might still need them!” Nagorno reprimanded.
“Archers, hold position! No one is to lower their guard!” Chipia ordered. “You, townsfolk, take shelter! Everybody to the cathedral!”
We barged into Santa María, where the oldest residents were reciting the paternoster for the hundredth time.
“We fought off the attackers! The town stood firm!” we all exclaimed.
Mendoza, his face torn by arrows, flung his arms around the weaver women, overjoyed.
Children skipped in circles.
Someone standing close said, “I’ll fetch my bagpipe!”
Even Gimeno, the stout curate who had replaced Vidal, refrained from scolding us for dancing in God’s house. He sat on the floor, legs splayed on either side of his paunch, and leaned his head against the altar. He closed his eyes and crossed himself.
Soon all the inhabitants, nobles and artisans alike, were reeling to the music from violas, rebecs, and lutes.
I looked for Alix and found her clinging to Grandmother Lucía. The old woman’s eyes were creased with joy. She laughed, showing her beautiful, toothless smile.
I went over to sit with them, rested my head on Alix’s lap, and closed my eyes, allowing myself to escape for a few moments. I caressed her belly, embracing our unborn child. I thought about our son, Yennego, who wasn’t dancing with the other children. She squeezed my hand gently, wordlessly.
Chipia joined us on the altar stairs, interrupting our moment of peace. He reeked of death, and his breath was labored. A trickle of blood ran from his brow down his neck and
under his chain mail.
“Miraculously, no one was killed,” he declared. “Only arrow wounds. Two are serious: Ortiz de Zárate has four in his leg. It will have to be amputated, before it turns gangrenous. And Milia, the layer-out, was hit in the side and the stomach.”
“Send the townsfolk home. If wine begins to flow, they’ll be celebrating all night,” I warned. I shared their happiness, but I was concerned about what lay in store for us, concerns I knew they did not share.
Chipia stood up and ordered the musicians to stop playing.
“Go home and rest!” he shouted, placing himself at the center of the gathering. “We have resisted them, and tomorrow the troops will arrive from Pamplona. They will repel King Alfonso’s army, and we’ll be saved.”
* * *
—
But Alix, Lyra, Nagorno, Gunnarr, and I did not rest. We continued to search every yard, every garden. I even tapped the walls of the sacristy with a stick lest some monster had the idea of immuring my son.
But we found no trace of Yennego.
Still my family refused to go to their beds, and we spread out once more. Alix and I scoured the alleyways off Rúa de la Astería for the hundredth time.
Dawn had not yet broken, but we saw a glow lighting up the indigo sky. We exchanged a worried glance and ran to the South Gate.
We climbed the steps and peered over the wall.
“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Alix asked, alarmed.
“I’m afraid so. This attack will be like none this town has seen. We must alert Chipia at the Sant Viçente fortress. I’m not sure our town will survive what’s coming.”
41
THE FORGE
ALVAR
April 1994
Alvar kept looking behind him, even though he knew everyone in the tower was enjoying an afternoon siesta. Ramiro was studying in the library; his father was dozing by the fire in his office. He had double-checked.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat when he thought about his father, Lorenzo Alvar XXIII, Lord of Nograro Tower.
But there was no going back now.
He had done it. He’d gone to Vitoria and signed the papers. Agustín, his best friend since childhood, had recently been ordained. He had agreed to Alvar’s request to serve as a witness and would be waiting for them in the chapel at San Viçente Church.
“Gemma,” he whispered, as he entered the abandoned forge. “It’s me, Alvar. We need to go now, or we’ll be late.”
But Gemma wasn’t there yet. He checked his watch. They had an hour to get to Vitoria. Once it was done, his father would have to accept it.
He checked his watch again.
We won’t make it. He was starting to worry. I told her not to be late, not today.
Gemma was sometimes a bit impetuous. She had thick wavy hair and strong features, and she was a good student. She dreamed of becoming a marine biologist, although everyone knew it would never happen. She would instead go to university in Vitoria and choose one of the courses available there. But when she and Alvar met in Ugarte on the weekends, she had put all that aside and stopped being so serious. She would arrange dinners with the cuadrilla, outings on horseback, hikes and trips to attend festivals in town. That was Gemma, a natural leader. Alvar had always been crazy about her, but she’d never paid attention to him. She was the only one. All the other girls had been desperate to get close to him, but they’d never mattered.
Alvar sat on an old stack of firewood. The forge technically belonged to the Nograro family, but it hadn’t been used in decades. He had been thinking about restoring it for years, turning it into a country hotel when he set up his agritourism business.
His father would fight him on it. Lorenzo Alvar disliked change, and the family didn’t need the money. But Alvar didn’t want to just preserve the family heritage. He planned to reform the estate from the bottom up, although he would have to do it slowly as long as his father was still around. And it was going to take Lorenzo Alvar a long time to get over the marriage, which wouldn’t help things.
What did it matter? His father had gotten worse recently. He even wore his embarrassing disguises to dinner, and he insisted on speaking medieval Spanish. His last psychiatrist didn’t even believe he had multiple personality disorder. He thought he was a transvestite in denial.
Poor Mama, Alvar thought yet again. She’s had to put up with so much.
He peered out the ancient building’s tiny windows. All he could see in the distance were a few houses in Ugarte.
That’s how I’ll get them to agree: I’ll tell them after the fact, when it’s a fait accompli.
But Gemma still hadn’t arrived, and now he worried that they would be late for their own wedding. He stood up. He was willing to risk it. He would go to her house to pick her up. Gemma’s grandmother had always been their silent ally; she wouldn’t betray them.
He was halfway to the door when it opened slowly. He heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t often get agitated, but his hands had been shaking all day.
He wasn’t expecting her to enter. Not her.
He had worried that his father might find out, that the people in the village might have told him something, and that he would confront them and fly into a rage the way he did when he wore his military uniform. When he dressed in that costume, the whole family knew he would be irascible.
But he wasn’t expecting his mother to walk in. Inés approached him cautiously. She was wearing the string of gold bracelets she never took off and had a cardigan tied loosely around her shoulders. It looked as if she had just been to the tanning bed as well. He adored his mother; they were as thick as thieves. She was the only grown-up who took his side.
“Mama, what are you doing here?”
His mother looked serious—too serious.
“I’m sorting out your life, that’s what.”
Alarm bells rang in Alvar’s head, and he instinctively recoiled.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”
“Sit down, Alvar.” She motioned to a sack. She didn’t even smile. This was unlike her. She was patient and courteous, and always smiling.
“It’s just that I have to go.” He looked at his watch again.
If Gemma walked in with his mother there, it would be disastrous….Disastrous.
“The wedding is off,” she said, and produced the marriage license Alvar thought he had in his wallet.
His mother tore it into tiny pieces until not one word remained intact.
“I understand that you’re angry because I didn’t tell you I was getting married. I know how important these things are in our family, and I planned on telling you. Let me explain….Gemma’s pregnant. And we want to be together.”
“Just like all the others, Alvar,” his mother said, clasping her son’s hands. She stared down at them.
“No, it’s different this time,” Alvar said frantically. “And it’s not just because she’s pregnant. I understand why you’re skeptical. You always tell me that I’m fickle, that I’ve never had to fight for anything in my life, that my future has always been mapped out for me. But don’t you see? I want to be with Gemma. I want to take responsibility for the child we’re going to have.”
They heard a noise outside the forge.
“It’s her!” Alvar jumped to his feet, excited.
“Sit down, Alvar. It must be a dog. It certainly isn’t Gemma.”
Outside, Ramiro was crouched behind the wall, listening. Alvar had been acting strangely, and Ramiro had noticed that his mother was coming and going at odd times as well. She was lying to his father and taking mysterious trips to Vitoria. His home had begun to resemble a den of medieval conspirators, full of intrigue, uncomfortable silences, and nervous smiles. Young Ramiro saw everything from behind his protective glasses. He was convinced that Alvar and Gemm
a were plotting something, so he had followed his brother. Gemma was eighteen, five years older than Ramiro, and he was madly in love with her. But if she and Alvar were together, he would forget about her. He wouldn’t interfere in his brother’s life if Gemma meant that much to him.
Ramiro stayed perfectly still, praying to God that his brother and mother wouldn’t discover him eavesdropping.
“How do you know she’s not outside?” That was Alvar’s voice inside the forge. He sounded distraught.
“Because she left Ugarte last night.”
It took Alvar a couple of seconds to absorb this; he and Gemma had last spoken on Saturday afternoon. They had had a long conversation to tie up any loose ends.
“Did she go to Vitoria?” he asked, sitting down again, still oblivious to what was coming.
“No, I forbade it.”
“You did what?” Alvar echoed, incredulous.
“She won’t be coming back to Ugarte or to Vitoria. Not ever.”
“I don’t believe this. What did you do?”
“I paid her—a lot. To leave here, to never see you again, and to get rid of a child that has no business being born.”
No, not my child. It was a terrifying thought.
Alvar realized that, for the first time, he felt like a father. When Gemma had first told him, the child had been no more than an exciting, abstract idea. It was Gemma who really mattered. But now, his child? Gemma was going to get rid of his child? Without even talking to him?
“What are you saying? Why would you say that my child has no business being born? Are you really that much of a snob?”
“Me, a snob? You know nothing, Alvar. You’ve lived your whole life in Ugarte, and you know nothing.”
“What don’t I know? Why don’t you approve of Gemma or her mother—or anybody in her family for that matter?”
His mother sighed. It was so difficult, so humiliating to have to tell this story to her own son. She didn’t want to dredge up memories from twenty years ago. Damn him. Damn Lorenzo Alvar, XXIII Lord of Nograro.
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